Alanaka Episode II - An Adventure Begins

                                 

                                         2/26/14 - "Alanaka Episode II - An Adventure Begins"

     Blogger's Note:  Would it be silly of me to admit that I just got goosebumps writing that?  Don't you just love goosebumps?  I'm not sure of the scientific explanation for goosebumps.  I read somewhere that it has something to do with fear and how our body tries to "shrink" itself in the face of danger.  But I don't think that describes what causes my goosebumps.
     I get goosebumps when something that defies logic or rational explanation unveils itself in my presence.  A ghost story that is just too believable to be a lie.  Salvation against incalculable probability.  Discovery at the end of a hopeless search.  Finding love in the most unlikely place.  Beginning an adventure.
     Now, if you haven't already, you'll need to start at the beginning.  So, go back and read Alanaka, and then come back here for the continuing saga.  And keep in mind that this is a serial.  So, it's a little more difficult to find a good start/stop point than it is for an outlined story.
     I don't want to wear out the subject, but I don't know where this girl came from.  And she won't fucking get out of my head.  I thought to myself, 'Duane, there's only one way this girl can go on an adventure.  And it's so obvious that it's boring.'  But, I explored the avenue anyway.
     I/she opened the box.  I whispered to her... some time in the far distant future.  She listened.
     And then it happened.  The worst thing that could possibly happen happened.  And it wasn't especially original or clever.  Not initially.  But, she beckoned me to follow her.  Just a little further.  Just a little further, Duane.  And then.  There it was.
     "It's not a cry that you hear at night.  It's not somebody that's seen the light.  It's a cold and a broken Hallelujah."
     I had to tell her to quit, though.  She was taking me so far that I almost forgot where it started.  Girl, slow down.  I'm getting old.  To which she replied, "Well, start writing then..."
     And it's so hard to get this to take flight.  Trying to introduce the reader to both a new world and a new story is rather difficult  So be patient with me, won't you?  At least until this bird takes to the sky...
     Listening to:  Florence + the Machine "Cosmic Love"

     ...my hand would betray me and begin tracing the box that was in my pocket.  Fortunately, Joanna never noticed.
     Alanaka's PIB began softly flashing a slow, deep blue.  It didn't surprise her.  She knew her mother would be calling for her any second.  A tingling, numb sensation buzzed up her arm as her PIB was pumping pseudo-nutrients into her bloodstream.  She wasn't sure how long she had been in the attic reading, but apparently she had waited too long to eat.
     "Alanaka!"  Sure enough, her mother's voice spoke from her PIB.
     "I know, Mom, I know.  I'll be right there."  She didn't want to have to endure another lecture about how much better she'd feel if she'd eat some real food.  "Pseudo-nutrients will keep you alive, but they won't keep you happy," her mother always said.
     She took one last look at the shoes as she began replacing everything back in the box.  She still hadn't found out whose they were or why they were kept, but she would come up here later and read some more.  A faded grumble of distant thunder suggested that the Tantrum was nearly over.  She grabbed the Skip Rope on her way to the attic steps.
     Downstairs, in the kitchen, her mother had already made her a plate of pierogies.  Alanaka sat in front of it looking distant and reflective.
     "Well?" her mother asked her.
     "Well what?" Alanaka took a bite and looked up at her mother who was wiping off the counter.
     "The shoes?  Did you get to that part?"  Mrs. Montgomery sat down the towel, crossed her arms, and turned to face her daughter.
     "No.  Not yet."  Alanaka refused to expose any emotion, so she maintained a blank expression and studied her food.
     "Well, you'll get there," her mother dismissed the subject.  She opened the refrigerator and pulled out a container.
     "What's that?" Alanaka inquired.
     "Your father's supper.  Something happened at the worm.  They won't let anybody come or go right now.  He called and asked me to bring his dinner to the front lobby."
     "What happened?"  Nothing exciting ever happened at the worm, and she was anxious to have the mystery solved.
     "I don't know, but I don't think it's anything serious.  Probably just a security precaution.  If it was too serious, they would've evacuated."  Alanaka was at an age that she enjoyed challenging her mother on most subjects, but she found herself on the losing end of most of these battles.  Mrs. Montgomery's logic, obviously sharpened from years of experience, was difficult to fault.
     Her mother started opening the back door, then stopped.  "Alanaka, Mason is spending the night tonight.  Both his parents have to pull all-nighters, so I told his mother that he could stay here.  He ran home to grab some things."
     Alanaka's fork clanged against the plate as she dropped it to punctuate a complaint.  "Mom!  Seriously?  You know how those two are when they get together!  And it's going to be worse with you gone, too!"
     "Well, deal with it, young lady.  I wouldn't feel right about leaving that boy at home alone.  He's not a bad kid, just a little mischievous.  Boston's in charge; but, if you think they're doing something they shouldn't be, then don't hesitate to call me," her mother instructed.
     Alanaka's PIB began flashing yellow.  "What is it, Boston?" she answered her brother's incoming call.
     "Hey, I'm in the Viz Room; Mason just PIB'ed me; he's at the back door.  Could you please let him in?" her brother requested.
     Mrs. Montgomery already had the back door partially open.  After hearing her son's request, she opened it the rest of the way to find Mason standing there sporting a backpack and a smirk.  "Thanks for letting me spend the night, Mrs. Montgomery.  I sure fucking appreciate it."
     "Come in, Mason.  I was just about to leave, but I'll be right back.  You and Boston don't get in any trouble while I'm gone, ok?"  She brushed her fingers through his hair and gave him a smile tinged with warning.
     Just as Alanaka began wondering whether or not he had heard the conversation about him, he addressed her.  "Alanaka, I had something I was gonna tell you, but I'm not going to now."  He was smiling when he said it, but something about his words stung her a little.  She hadn't meant for him to hear what she had said.
     "I'm in here!" Boston called from the other room to Mason.
     "Ok.  Well, I'm leaving now," Mrs. Montgomery spoke to Alanaka.  "It's not that bad, dear.  I love you.  See you in a little bit."
     "Bye" was all that Alanaka could muster.
     After her mother closed the door behind her, Alanaka stopped eating and stared ahead.  She was imagining what life must have been like in the stories that she had been reading.  She wondered what "beer" tasted like, what it must feel like to be 40, how freezing water might feel.  She wanted to talk about these feelings she was having, but who would understand?  She felt like the only person in the whole world.  She closed her eyes and thought about Joanna.  She would understand.  She would know what to say.
     "We're trapped!"  Someone's voice called from the Viz Room.  Alanaka's chair scraped the kitchen floor as she pushed it back so that she could stand.  She quietly made her way across the dining room and stretched her neck just enough to peak into the next room.
     A shirtless man was unbuckling his belt.  The belt had tiny, flashing lights that twinkled intermittently and a gun holster that held what appeared to be the type of Blister Pistol that a Vlusian Ranger used.  On the bed next to him, a topless woman was on her knees, helping the Ranger take his belt off.
     "Take me, Commander Irving.  Take me before the Binker Rats eat us alive!"  The woman was panting her words dramatically.  Just before she unveiled Commander Irving's other pistol, Alanaka covered her eyes.
     "BOSTON!  MASON!  Change the channel right now or I'm calling Mom!"
     "Fine!" Boston digressed as he stood from his crouched position behind the couch where he and Mason had been concealed for the prank.  "Viz Channel 47," he nervously smiled.
     "You're not going to tell Mom are you?" Boston asked his sister as the Vlusian Ranger and the damsel in distress were replaced with a man walking through New Israel markets and describing the amazing wares that were being peddled.  Mason quickly stood beside his friend, sporting a visage of concern for Alanaka's response.
     She paused, assessing the goofballs standing in front of her.  She hastily inventoried the potential deals that she could make with the two Binker Rats.  "Not if you'll play Skip Rope with me.  It takes three people, and I've been wanting to play ever since we saw it in the attic."
     Boston and Mason looked at each other and shrugged.  "Sure," Boston accepted the terms without hesitation.  Alanaka ran into the kitchen where she had left the contraption and returned to the Viz Room where the boys were waiting.
     "Ok.  I get to play Controller first," she announced.  She gripped the handle in her hand and turned it on.  A red, laser light formed a perimeter around her with a radius of about 5 feet.  "Awaiting two more participants," the Skip Rope informed.
     Mason stepped into the halo of light first.  "Awaiting one more participant."
     When Boston joined the other two, the light brightened.  "Triangulating PIBs.  PIBs synchronized."
     "Start," Alanaka instructed.
      "Initiating game.  Level One starting..."
     A single ray of light extended from Alanaka, who stood in the center, to the edge of the perimeter.  It began slowly rotating counter-clockwise.  "Ok, you guys ready?" Alanaka asked.
     After exclamations of "Go!" and "Ready!", Alanaka began shouting "High" or "Low".  The beam of light would relocate accordingly.  Boston and Mason would either duck or jump out of its path as it approached them.
     "Level 2."
     The ray began moving quicker.  Alanaka began to shout hastily, attempting to change the course of the light just before it reached the dodgers.
     "Level 3."
     "Ok!  Here we go!  7 o'clock!"  Everyone knew that "Level 3" was when Skip Rope got interesting.  Now the Controller had an extra beam of light that she could emit at any one of twelve positions.  It would ricochet off the rotating beam or the edge of the perimeter and continue bouncing around for five seconds after it was "fired".  If she timed it just right, she could trip one of them up before "Level 4".
     Unfortunately, the two boys were pretty good.  At "Level 4", the extra beam lasted six seconds.  At "Level 5", she would get two extra beams.  The difficulty kept increasing until "Level 8".  None of them had ever made it past that.
     Alanaka's PIB started flashing the deep blue that meant her mother was calling her.  "End game," she instructed the Skip Rope with a disappointed grimace.  "What is it, Mom?"
     "Baby, something's going on down here.  I don't know how long I'll be.  I just wanted..."  The message ended.  Her PIB quit flashing.  "Mom?" Alanaka called.  There was no response.
     "PIB call Mom," Boston tried this time.  Nothing happened.
     Suddenly, the man that was strolling through New Israel markets began flashing red.  The three children looked at one another.  That meant that an announcement from the Chief of Council was about to be broadcast.  Something about the timing of the dropped call and the unexpected emergency broadcast made Alanaka's heart rate quicken.  She didn't like the feeling.
     "Viz Channel 1," Boston instructed.  Two men sitting across from each other and wearing suits were wearing dire expressions.  One of them was talking so quickly that Alanaka didn't know how he was breathing.
     "...we're not sure why.  We know that the Chief of Council had a prepared speech in response, but we can't seem to get a link to the Council Hall in Sydney.  We are continuing to try, so please stand by."
     The other man chimed in.  "For those just tuning in, a bomb has just killed twenty people in Hong Kong.  We don't know any details other than that right now, and it's only speculation as to why their PIB's didn't protect them from the explosion.  The eerie coincidence of a bomb being detonated at the exact moment that their PIB's failed leaves a lot to speculate that terrorism might be..."
     "Terrorism?"  The other man interrupted.  "Do you even know what you're saying?  This isn't Vlusia.  Every Chinese PIB Ambassador has already been accounted for.  There's no other way to deactivate a PIB.  We have local PIB Ambassador Ingrid Tervin linked up now.  Ingrid, how could this have happened?"
     A woman suddenly appeared in the Viz Room.  Her serious expression scared Alanaka.
     "Can you hear me?" the woman spoke.
     "Yes, Ambassador Tervin.  You're live now," one of the men responded.
     "Ok, well, it would appear..." she began, but Mason's stupid voice interrupted her.
     "What's going on?" Mason asked out loud.
     "Be quiet, Mason!" Alanaka yelled at him.  "I can't hear her!"  Fortunately, Mason didn't object.
     "...and the only other way is PIB dissection.  So, if an Ambassador didn't do this, and it appears that it almost certainly wasn't an Ambassador, the only other explanation is that someone has found a way to dissect a PIB to see how it 'ticks' and used that knowledge to disable the PIBs of the victims."
     "So you're suggesting terrorism?" one of the men asked.
     "Terrorism is indeed my best theory right now.  Fortunately, it appears to be localized to an isolated HyperTram station in Hong Kong.  Twenty people is a statement I think.  They hit a target with a high potential for victims.  Twenty people being killed at one time is the most in over 500 years, and I fear that..."
     "I'm sorry, Ambassador Tervin.  We have, what we're told, is an important announcement from North American Ambassador Ryvan Locklear.  If you can standby, Ambassador Tervin, we will try to come back to you..."
     "Ambassador Locklear is online now," the other man interrupted.  Ambassador Locklear was a handsome man with spiky hair and a cavalier mustache.  Alanaka didn't like his smug eyes.  "Ok, you're live, Ambassador Locklear."
     "Ok, thank you.  The crew here at the Ambassador Station in the New England province has made an important discovery.  I'm speaking on behalf of my team; we've been working on causes since the bombing two hours ago..."
     "Two hours ago!" Mason exclaimed.
     "For the last time, be quiet, Mason!"  Alanaka picked up the brass angel that was decorating the hickory end table next to her and threw it at her brother's annoying friend.  It hit him in the forehead.
     It hit him.
     It hit him, and he was bleeding.
     He was bleeding.
     For a moment, Alanaka and Boston just stared at him.  Blood was trickling down Mason's face, and they were awe-struck.
     Mason felt the red liquid with his fingers and lifted them so that he could see what the strange, wet feeling was.  When he saw the blood, he started crying.
     That's when Alanaka and Boston jumped into action.  "Oh, Mason.  I'm so sorry!" Alanaka pleaded.  "What happened??"
     Between stifling whimpers, Mason spoke.  "PIB call Mom."  There was no response.
     "What is going on?" Boston whispered.
     "PIB call Mom!" Mason tried again.  Still nothing.
     "I don't think the PIB's are working," Alanaka said.  They all turned to listen to Ambassador Locklear in unison.  This time Mason didn't say a word.
     "...the photonic battery.  Now, for those of you that don't know what a photonic battery is, it's what powers a PIB.  So whoever is responsible for this didn't entirely disable the PIB's.  They simply used some form of transmission using towers that must have been erected at targeted locations to muffle the photonic battery's effectiveness.  We estimate that the PIB's are running at about one-third power, which isn't nearly enough to energize the force fields or communications or, well, basically anything.  It's a very clever technique that uses cellular signals, similar to those used in the 21st Century, to nullify the battery's power."
     "So, whoever did this, it couldn't have been just one person?" one of the men asked.
     "Oh, no.  That's the scariest part of all.  To erect multiple signal towers, to dissect and understand how a PIB operates, to plant the bomb.. we're still getting reports of the mass effect of the neutralized PIB's.. it would take a trained team of terrorists."
     "Ambassador Locklear, couldn't someone just dissect a Vlusian PIB to see how they tick?  Certainly, that would be easy enough," one of the men questioned.
     "No.  First off, Vlusian PIB's are strictly not allowed on Earth.  We scan for them on any incoming parties.  And, besides, it wouldn't matter anyway.  Take it from me when I say that Vlusian PIB's are 100% different than those here on Earth.  They have almost no similarities.  So, even if it were possible to sneak one in, then it wouldn't matter."
     "So, Ambassador, any theories as to how someone might have found a kink in the PIB's function?"
     "I only have two possible theories.  One is a rogue Ambassador.  But every single Ambassador has been accounted for.  They go through a century of strict background checks and profiling.  I think it's highly unlikely that it was an Ambassador.  That leaves my second theory.  As I said, a PIB runs off a photonic battery.  A single ray of light can power a PIB for a decade; it's difficult to measure.  Someone would have to live in total darkness, and I mean total, for at least two centuries.  If someone was that crazy, that driven, then the PIB would be inoperable and could be dissected in the dark.  This person would have to be scientifically knowledgeable and psychopathically driven.  He would have to be carefully shrouded in darkness so that not even a random twinkle of light could reach him.  I cannot imagine someone so driven as to spend 200 years in darkness."
     "Could a Voluntary Fade with a failed application be responsible?"
     "It's possible, but it would still take a trained team of support," the Ambassador responded.
     "Could you block the signal that's disrupting the photonic batteries?" one of the interviewing men asked.
     "That's what we're working on.  The problem is that they're using technology that is centuries old and very outdated.  We could reverse engineer the cellular signal if we had some of this technology, but the few museums that have some of these contraptions have been compromised," the Ambassador revealed.
     "You mean, they've been stolen?"
     "Yes.  Over the past couple of days, these devices were being stolen from museums worldwide.  We didn't make the connection until it was too late."
     "There's one of those cellular phones at the museum in the sky tower above the worm!" Boston exclaimed.
     "I bet that's why Dad can't leave!  The theft is under investigation!" Alanaka speculated.
     "Turn it off.  I don't want to hear anymore," Mason said.  It looked to Alanaka like the bleeding had stopped.  She was relieved.
     Boston, inclined to grant his hurt friend's wish, said, "Viz off."  The people in front of them disappeared.
     "What should we do?" Alanaka asked.
     "What do you mean, what should we do?" Boston countered.  "We do nothing, that's what.  We wait.  We sit here and wait for Mom or Dad to get home."
     "Boston, they could be in danger.  They can't do anything right now," Alanaka retorted.
     "What in the world could we do even if we wanted to?" Boston shot back.
     "I know where one of those cellular phones are," his sister revealed.
     "What are you talking about?"
     "It's in those stories I've been reading.  One was hidden in this train in a canister.  I know it's a long-shot; but, the instructions that the phone not ever be removed was entered into its coordinates.  And it's in a weatherproof container!" Alanaka recounted.
     "Where is it?" Mason groaned the question as he nursed his injury.
     "It was some place called Paducah, KY," Alanaka explained.
     "Well, where's that?" Boston challenged.
     "I don't know..." she looked away, aggravated.  "We'd need our PIB's to work to get that information."
     "I know how to do that," Mason mumbled.  "Well, maybe..."
     Boston and Alanaka just looked at him.
     "The Skip Rope," he explained.  "If it triangulates our PIB's, and they're at one-third battery power, then, as long as we're within its range, shouldn't our combined PIBs be enough to make a full battery."
     Alanaka looked at him as if seeing him for the first time.  If he was right, she might never look at him the same.  She ran to grab the Skip Rope, returned to the two boys, and turned it on.
     "Triangulating PIBs.  PIBs synchronized."
     Alanaka looked at Boston as if he should try something first.  "It's your Skip Rope.  You check," Boston encouraged.
     "PIB?  Are you working?" Alanaka held her breath as she waited for a response.
     "Yes.  Due to energy levels, PIB restricted to singular functions," her PIB responded.
     She exhaled and smiled brightly at Mason.  "PIB, locate Paducah KY," she instructed.
     "The location of the city once known as Paducah, KY is now thirty feet under Lake New Madrid."
     She looked hopefully at her brother.  "Lake New Madrid was spared during the Great War."  Boston just stared at her.  "PIB, do you have the coordinates for where the downtown floodwall at Paducah, KY once stood?" Alanaka asked.
     "Yes."
     "Well, that doesn't help us!  How would we get there?" Boston admonished.
     "We could take Dad's Corvette!" Alanaka suggested.
     "Alanaka, if we traveled at cruise speed it would take us all night to get there.  And none of us has a pilot's license to travel above Mach 1.  We should just give someone else this information.  Besides, see if you can use your PIB to call Mom," Boston countered.
     "PIB call Mom," Alanaka tried.  After a few seconds with no response, she sighed.  "I guess hers is still offline.  If we just had someone that could pilot us to Lake New Madrid... Boston, we could be heroes..."
     "Well, Harry Ballsack could take us," Mason said absently.  Alanaka decided that the slate was clean again.  Mason's Skip Rope revelation had just been nullified by another prime example of his insolent stupidity.
     "Actually," Boston pondered.  "Harry Ballsack could take us..."
                                             (to be continued...)
   .
Continued in "Alanaka Episode III - The Lost City of Paducah
     
   
     
   
     

Chapter 11 - Perceptions

                                                   

                                                 2/14/14 - "Chapter 11 - Perceptions"

     Blogger's Note:  I've noticed that viewership of the "How We Got Engaged" stories seems to have plateaued.  While the other features tend to have (slightly) increasing views, the "How We Got Engaged" stories have flat-lined.  I'm not losing viewers, but I'm not gaining any new ones either.  I suppose the obvious reason is that getting caught up to the eleventh installment would require a commitment.
     Well, if I can be so bold, if you haven't gone back to get caught up, then I think you're missing out.  This story has had some moments.  If you could give it a chance, maybe you would agree.  So, I'm gonna help you.  The story starts here.  That's "Chapter 1 - The Tea Monster".  I would suggest reading through to Chapter 4.  If you're not hooked by Chapter 4, then I think it's safe to say that this story isn't for you.  But won't you give a try?  I've already explained that this story will have sixteen chapters.  So, I'm beginning to see the light at the end of the tunnel.  And, it's a beautiful light, I might add.  Everything that I have done and will be doing leads that encore.
     On another note, I think I'm having a problem.  Making a Parenting with Lightsabers Facebook page may have been a bad idea.  You see, Facebook displays the number of people that have "seen" any particular post from that page.  Any time that I share something (i.e. a link to the newest episode), they really limit the number of people that see that post unless I pay money (they recommend $5/day).  I'm certainly not making any money from this blog, so I'm not about to start paying money for something.  Now, I post links to my personal Facebook profile, but there are a lot of people that "like" the Parenting with Lightsabers page that I'm not friends with on Facebook.  I really want a platform to reach these people to simply let them know when a new episode is available.  I'm considering my options so stay tuned for further developments.  Also, if you're having trouble getting notifications when new episodes are available, please let me know on my Facebook page so I can see which demographic I'm having trouble reaching.
     On to today's episode.  This will be the last chapter.  What's that?  I'm ending the story??  Oh, let's not be silly.  We're almost there.  But this will be the last chapter.
     Jeremy and I were geocaching yesterday.  What's geocaching?  Well, for those that don't know, it's like a modern day treasure hunt.  People hide various items all over.  (And by all over, I mean all over).  Unless you installed the app on your phone, you wouldn't believe how many are around you right now.  You might be standing on one as you're reading this.  They are anything as big as an ammunition box or as small as a film canister.  Inside, there's usually a slip of paper that you can sign to verify that you indeed found it.  You can also leave small "treasures" and ask that they are relocated to another location (on the other side of the world if you'd like).  If you're heading in the general direction that it needs to go (even if only by a couple of blocks), you can help it along.  You can take it and move it in that direction.  Eventually, it will get where it's going.  Or you can request that it stays where you leave it, like it's your own personal treasure that other people can see but not take.  That's what I did.
     To find a geocache, you choose one on the app.  You're then given approximate coordinates, hints if you need them, and the difficulty level.  The difficulty scale runs from one-to-five, five being the most difficult.  The big train that is displayed in front of Paducah's riverfront flood wall contains one that is a level five.  Jeremy and I spent some time before he found it.  He's always better at spotting them than I am.  He pulled out the canister, signed the paper inside, and was about to replace it when I stopped him.  I had brought with me an old cell phone.  It needed to be discarded, but I had cleaned out anything personal that morning.  I asked Jeremy to put it in there with the instructions that it should not be removed.  He did so, punched some directions in the app, and replaced the "treasure" for someone else to find.  I like the idea that a little part of me is "buried" at one of my favorite places in the whole world.
     I spent a lot of time during our silent searching just thinking.  Thinking about what I was going to write about in this chapter.  And about future blog subjects.  I've always been a dreamer.  I spend so much time fantasizing about things instead of working on making them happen.  It certainly exercises my imagination, but it doesn't do much to actually fulfill any of these dreams.  I've got what I think will be some really great future posts.  Unfortunately, I've got some gaps to fill in between then and now.  I'm so excited about what will come that I forget to focus on what's here and now.
     Which brings me to my point.
     This will be the last chapter.
     This installment will be the last chapter that I'm scrambling to find some filler material.  I will introduce the last of the characters in my story.  And I will have the board set up for the last "moves".  I'm really struggling to get through this one, because I have the remainder of the story so well planned.  I want to get to that part.  But I can't until I have the stage all dusted, the props in place, the actors in their positions.  So, as far as this story's concerned, bear with me one last time.  Endure this chapter with me, and then brace yourself.  This roller coaster is about to crest that long, uphill climb before it's set free to barrel through loops and fly around bends.
     So, let me roll up my sleeves and get over this hump.
     Listening to:  M. Ward "Lullaby + Exile"

     When I closed the passenger door, my heart was pounding a little more than it probably should have been.  Stacey looked at me with a delighted expression after she fastened her seat belt but before she started her car.
     "Let me see it again," she insisted.
     I pulled the ring box out of the plastic bag and opened the lid.  I had just spent my meager savings on its contents.
     "For the money, I don't think you could have done any better," Stacey appraised.  "It's very nice."  She sounded genuinely happy.
     I took a second look at the ring myself.  I didn't know much about rings, but I liked the way it sparkled in the sunlight.  I tilted it back and forth, lost in thought.
     "You know, Jeff thinks this is a bad idea," she began.  Jeff was her husband; Joanna and I had spent a lot of time hanging out with the two of them.  She paused to assess my reaction before continuing.  "I don't."
     I closed the lid to the ring box and replaced it in the plastic bag.  I stretched so that I could put it in my pocket and then examined the "lump" on my leg to see how recognizable it would be.  I re-positioned it as if that would help.
     "He doesn't know you two like I do..."  Stacey put the car in reverse and started backing out of the parking spot.  "Have you thought about how you're going to do it?"
     I smiled and nodded.  I took a deep breath and said, "yeah..."  I waited until we pulled onto the road before continuing.
     "I was going to take her to the Garden of the Gods," I revealed.  "That was sort of our first date, and I love that place.  I thought that while we were looking out at the landscape from one of those rocks, I'd drop down on one knee, and, well, you know..."
     Stacey smiled, "that sounds perfect."
     We sat in silence for a bit.  I started wondering if I was making a good decision.
     "You know," Stacey was crossing an intersection, so she paused to look both ways before continuing.  "So many people spend so much time getting to know one another that, by the time they get married, the mystery is gone.  What's the fun in that?  I think there's a happy medium.  And I think you've thought this through.  You're a lot more responsible now than you used to be."
     I smiled at the notion.  "I hope you're right.  You know, though, I feel good about this, too.  It feels right..."
     The realization that Joanna could be leaving any day had sprung me into action.  I didn't think I could go back to the Milwaukee's Best life that I had been living now that I had tasted sparkling wine.
     "So Jeremy's going to meet you at Apple Bee's?" Stacey asked.
     "Yeah, I want him and his wife to meet Joanna.  She's got my car right now," I paused to look at my watch.  "She should be getting off work any minute..."
     "So she's gonna meet you there?" Stacey asked.
     "Yeah.  I told her that you were going this way so I was gonna hitch a ride with you so that I wasn't just sitting around the hotel room staring at the walls," I explained.  "She's going to meet us at Apple Bee's as soon as she gets off work."
     Stacey pulled up to the front door and let me out.  She gave me a reaffirming smile and said "good luck" as I climbed out.  "Thanks," I said and closed the door behind me.
     When I got inside, no one was there yet.  I told the hostess that there would be four of us, but the rest of my party would be here later.  She pursed her lips and looked at a chart at the hostess stand.  She paused to look around the room and then back at her chart.  I saw two occupied tables as it was late in the afternoon and not a busy time for the restaurant industry.
     "Do you want to wait at the bar until the rest of your party gets here?" she asked without making eye contact.
     "I don't think they'll be long.  Is it ok if I go ahead and get a table?" I asked.
     She looked at her chart as though the request were burdensome.  I was growing irritated and was about to say something when she broke the silence.  "Follow me," she instructed as she grabbed a menu and a set of silverware.
     She hid me in the far corner at a booth where I had to stand to see the entrance.  "We have an early bird special.  Domestic beers are $2, and appetizers are half price," she explained with little to no voice inflection.  When she walked away, I took a breath.
     I reached for the box that was burning my pocket.  I traced the edges nervously as my thoughts sailed into oceans of possibility and seas of rationale.  Life lessons that had accumulated from years of frustrating mistakes were bracing themselves for their turn to dance, and they had learned some new moves.  I marveled at the way the ring could at moments weigh me with heavy responsibility; and, yet, at other moments, it could float me into the flickering projector light of marvelous, hope-filled wonder.
     "Can I get you something to drink?"  A friendly voice broke me from my trance.  I looked up to find a bright smile beaming from a curly-headed, chubby girl.  "We have $2 domestics on special right now."
     "Sure.  I'll take a Coors Light," I smiled back.
     "All right.  You waiting on some more people to arrive, or do you want to order something now?" she asked.
     "No, I'll just wait on everyone else," I replied.
     "Ok.  I'll be right back with your beer."  She smiled before she walked away.
     I stood when I thought I heard Jeremy's voice near the entrance.  He and his wife Ambrosia were conversing with the charming hostess that I had just encountered.  Although I couldn't hear what was being said, I could tell by Ambrosia's tone that they were going through a similar experience as I had.
     I didn't think I was going to like Ambrosia the first time that I met her.  She had a strong, willful personality that had no patience for ignorance or rudeness.  When she married my closest friend, we were forced to interact.  To my surprise, I grew to like her.  As long as you were on her side, she kept the predators at bay.
     I heard her say, "Well, we can seat ourselves if it's too much trouble."  Which anyone that knew Ambrosia would translate into, "Here, let me show you how to do your job."  I smiled to myself.
     When Jeremy and Ambrosia were finally seated across from me, I could tell by her expression what the opening dialogue was going to consist of.  "So... what crawled up her ass and died?" Ambrosia said.
     "I don't know, but I had a similar encounter," I confessed.
     "Well, she doesn't know who she's messing with," Ambrosia asserted.  Jeremy and I chuckled.
     The server showed up with my beer and took the new arrivals' orders.  "So, where's this girl you wanted us to meet?" Jeremy asked.
     "She should be here any second," I answered.
     "Well, if we're going to be hanging out with her, give us the rap sheet," Ambrosia submitted.
     "Her name's Joanna," I began.  "She's from Poland.  She's working here on a visa, and we've been dating for about three months."
     "So, you want us to meet her?  Must be getting serious," she speculated.
     I reached into my pocket and pulled out the box.  I opened the lid and showed them the contents.
     "Wow, dude," Jeremy marveled.
     "Serious, indeed.  You don't think that's a little fast?" Ambrosia didn't shy away from what was, in fact, a good question.
     "It is," I confessed.  "But, we're running out of time.  She could be sent to Vegas any day now, so I have to make a decision.  Let her go or ask her to stay.  It's not an easy decision, especially after I told myself I'd never rush into anything after my first marriage."
     "But it looks like you've reached your decision," Jeremy concluded.
     I looked at him with an expression reserved for a friend of twenty-something years.  It was filled with explanations and commitments and conflicting emotions and lists of reasons.  I brought them here to explain, to show them my intentions.  Initially, I had done this because they were the last of my friends that I really wanted to meet Joanna before I popped the question; but, suddenly, I discovered that they had inadvertently opened a window to exhaust my last remnants of doubt.  I still had time to back out; I didn't want to be stuck on a one-way street that only had one possible outcome.  I was the author of my own fate.  But, I had thought this through.  I wasn't an irresponsible child that had a sudden fancy.  I had invested my heart into this venture.
     "Well, it's nice."  Ambrosia broke me from my trance.  I turned the ring so that I could look at it again.  I saw a different future in each sparkle; I had decided to invest in making one of them a reality.
     "Is that her?" Jeremy asked.  He was looking over his shoulder toward the entrance.
     Joanna was standing at the hostess station.  She was scanning the room, trying to find us.  I closed the ring box and replaced it in my pocket.  We were waving at her, but she didn't see us.  The dutiful hostess was having an animated discussion with the bartender, seemingly ignoring the new arrival.
     "I'll take care of this," Ambrosia proclaimed.  She climbed out of the booth and marched to where Joanna was waiting.
     Ambrosia grabbed a menu and a roll of silverware.  "Hi.  I'm Ambrosia.  Duane's over here with us," she told the Polish girl who smiled at her improvised greeting.
     The hostess, suddenly aware of her shunned duty, marched to follow the two women to our booth.  After everyone was seated, the lady coldly addressed Ambrosia.  "Well, did you tell her about the specials, too?"
     The question, clearly a challenge, was fielded without a moment's lapse.  "That it's 'Seat Yourself' day?  Oh, she already knows."  Ambrosia met her stare, anxious for the reciprocation.  The hostess flinched.  She gave Ambrosia an icy smile and was about to say something before Ambrosia interjected.  "Our server can take it from here."
     After the lady coldly stormed away, Joanna and Ambrosia shared a smile.  Jeremy and I chuckled silently.
     "Joanna, this is one of my oldest friends Jeremy and his wife Ambrosia," I introduced.
     Joanna and Ambrosia laughed.  Apparently they were going to get along.  Before I could decide if that was a good thing or a bad thing, the server arrived.  Everyone placed their orders.  While we waited for our food and drinks, we jumped right into conversation.
     Jeremy and I talked about science fiction movies, good books, and songwriting.  Ambrosia and Joanna delved into Polish customs, good drinks, and how to deal with "bitches".  Everyone meshed well, and we merrily wasted a few hours on integrating the Polish girl into our world.  The process was entirely too simple; and, at times, I forgot that we hadn't all known each other for years.  Occasionally, my hand would betray me and begin tracing the box that was in my pocket.  Fortunately, Joanna never noticed.
                                              (to be continued...)
   
Continue our "How We Got Engaged" story"
                                                   Chapter 12 - On a Knee and a Whim
   
     
   
     

Hey, Dad

                                               

                                                             2/11/14 - "Hey, Dad"

     Blogger's Note:  I know, I know.  A new chapter in our "How We Got Engaged" story was due to come out this week.  But, I had something else on my mind, and one thing I've learned is that when inspiration comes a-knockin' I should open the door.
     As I announced on my Parenting with Lightsabers Facebook page (like it here), "Approaching 40" was my second most viewed feature since this blog's launch (a distant second to "Brookport").  And do you want to know a little secret?  I almost didn't write it.  I almost scrapped it.  It seemed like a silly idea.
     So, I sat it down (not too unlike the opening in that story).  I started writing something else.  And that something turned out to be total shit.  So, I went back to the original idea, not necessarily because I thought it was a better idea; but, because it was a complete idea.  And once I started writing it, that thing took over.  What is that thing?  Good question.  Unfortunately, I don't know.  I wish I did.  I wish it would come back and visit more often.  When it does visit, I don't have to do anything.  I just let the thing take over.
     Sometimes, I think the thing is being stupid.  I try to push it back down, because I'm smarter than it is.  I know what good writing is.  I know what a good idea is.  I know how to trim a setting from a colorless screen and paint it with a humorous anecdote, a dramatic flare, and a complicit story.  With a stroke of dazzling characterization, I can twirl a lexicon of language with such tempo and cadence that a paragraph nearly becomes a verse and a story is almost a song.
     And yet, sometimes, despite a perfect mesh of allegory and metaphor or a consummate implementation of astute vocabulary, the characters are still just mannequins with stiff poses and mechanical dialogue.  The story is a chiseled representation of something that is quite meaningful, but lifeless and limp.  I have published features with the best of intentions using this method.  Some of them are halfway decent; none are great.
     Adhering to a weekly schedule and a strict rotation system, I cannot always wait for the thing to arrive.  I sometimes just ride with what I know; I sometimes just stick to the plan.  But sometimes, sometimes, the thing shows up.  It creeps not from my brain, but from my heart.  Perhaps from my soul.  It weaves its tendrils around my circulatory system and spirals down my arms, into my hands, and through my fingers.  Its coffee-fueled tentacles stretch, retract for one last surge and RRRRAAAAWWWWWRRRRRRR!!!!!!! it comes alive.
     And I fear that what I'm writing isn't ok.  It isn't well-conditioned or suited for my audience or a measure of my aptitude.  It is risky and revealing and shady.  So I resist.
     But nothing comes.  I am useless at work and a robot at writing.  So maybe if I give in, just a little, maybe...  But there is no "just a little".  There is only...
     Sit your ass down.  Shut the fuck up.  Drink your coffee.  I've got this...
     Listening to: Bernard Fanning "Watch Over Me"

                    Hey, Dad,
     I had a revelation today.  I was driving to work, and I thought about you.  It's that time of year, you know.  And, I thought maybe I'd write you a letter.  I thought maybe if I wrote you a letter, maybe you'd read it.  Maybe.  I mean who knows?  Maybe you're watching me right now.  I just thought that you should know what came to my brain.  I have something I want to tell you.  But, I'm getting ahead of myself.  Let's see, where should I start?
     Well, I'm doing ok.  I married a Polish girl.  She keeps me in line.  She's a hard worker, and she's got some spunk.  I think you would've liked her.  We have two kids together.  She's a great mother!  She and I have a plan to see the world.  We've been to Greece and Egypt and Prague.  I don't know where we'll be going next, but I know we'll be going together.  And that's a great feeling.  She has this endearing accent; I wish you could hear her talk.  
     I wish you could've been at our American wedding.  Hell, I wish you could've been at our Polish wedding.  You wouldn't believe it.  There was an orchestra and rose petals that fell on us and we danced in a castle while a hundred people watched us.  You would've liked her family.  They are good, hard-working people.  Like you were, from what I hear.  But our American wedding was really special to me, too.  I'm writing a story about it.  Hell, I'm supposed to be working on it right now.  I hope you can read it.  I'm proud of it.  I'll get back to it next week.  But I wanted to write you a letter.  There's something I've been wanting to tell you.  Shit, I already said that.  Hang on, I'm getting there...
     We have two kids together.  Roman and Amelia.  
     Roman likes to dance.  You should see him.  He'll watch a video of someone dancing on his ipad (that's like a miniature tv that can play whatever tv show that you're in the mood to watch).  He'll mimic the moves and rewind it and learn everything step-by-step.  He's pretty good to tell you the truth.  He's a good kid, Dad.  I know you would've had a blast with him.  He has a soft heart and an observant eye.  Nothing gets past him.  When I'm too busy on my computer to play with him, I watch him from the corner of my eye.  He tries to respect my space; he'll walk away with this blank expression.  I think I'd rather see him cry.  So, I'll put away what I'm doing and play with him.  Even if it's only five minutes, I think it shows him that I love him.  Did you do things like that to me?  I was about Roman's age when you passed away.  I wonder how Roman would take it if I didn't come home one night like that.  The thought breaks my heart.
     Amelia likes to hear me play piano.  Yeah, Dad, I play piano.  I like to write and play piano.  I don't think you and I would have had a lot in common.  Anyway, she'll sit in my lap and listen to me sing.  She'll yell out and slap the keys.  She's too young to know anything, right?  And yet she knows that the keys play music and that the buttons operate the percussion.  She looks up at me when she knows I'm about to start singing.  Just in the past week or so, she's really getting around in her walker.  I'll sit her in it to get something out of the office; and, when I turn around, she'll be sitting there in the doorway behind me.  I don't ever see or hear her move.  She's just always behind me.  It's kinda creepy, Dad.  Can you see her?  Maybe you can help me solve this mystery.  She'll smile up at me with this gotchya grin.  She looks just like me, Dad.  I think she really likes me, too.  She seems like she wants me to hold her when I walk by.
     DJ is my oldest son.  I named him after you, Dad.  He's from my short, failed marriage many years ago.  He'll be 18 next month.  Kinda hard to believe.  Harold Duane Edwards III.  We call him DJ for Duane Junior.  Everyone called you Butchie; everyone calls me Duane; and we call him DJ.  Even though we're named after each other, it kinda gives us separate identities.  The funny thing is if you lined us all up in a row you'd have three very different people.  You were, from my understanding, into working on cars, hunting, fishing, and racing.  I like music, writing, and art.  DJ likes computers, anime, and video games.  He and I have been having a hard time getting along lately.  He's having a hard time at home; his life has been flipped upside down.  His mother and step-father are going through a divorce.  He's at a very critical moment of his life.  College is just around the corner.  I'm not trying to push him into any particular direction; I'm just trying to push him into action.  I'm hoping he'll do something with his life.  He doesn't live with me and doesn't seem to respect anything I have to say.  I don't know how to influence him in a positive way.  When I try to motivate him, he just gets upset with me.  Maybe you could throw a little help my way?  Not sure how much influence you have where you are, but anything would be appreciated.
     Speaking of that.. I was wondering... Could we conduct a little experiment?  I'm very conflicted in my beliefs, so I thought maybe, if you're capable, you could give me a little hint as to whether or not there is, indeed, life after death.  Maybe you could do something that would tip the scales a little?  Like write something in the steam of the bathroom mirror before I get out of the shower.  Maybe write "Frodo Baggins", that way I'll know it's you and not someone else.  Frodo was a halfling from Middle Earth called a Hobbit that has the One Ring which is the Dark Lord Sauron's.. oh, shit... nevermind.  Just write "car".
     Anyway, where were we?
     Shawn is doing great.  I think you and he would've gotten along very well.  He's the mechanic.  Hell, he's anything he puts his mind to.  He just graduated from Murray State.  He's some kind of computer programmer now.  He has two boys:  Wes and Will.  They're good kids filled with the Edwards spirit and a penchant for mischief.  You would have loved them.  I think Shawn may have taken after you and I may have taken after Mom.
     Speaking of Mom, she's doing ok.  Well, when she's not being crazy.  I think, after you died, she may have went a little bonkers.  When we run into someone that remembers her when she was little, they always talk about how quiet she was as a kid.  Well, she's anything but quiet now.  She never quits talking.  Ever.  She suffers from some degree of anxiety or paranoia or something.  I'm no psychologist, but I don't need to be to know that she's bat-ass crazy.  She takes good care of her grandchildren, though.  I don't think anyone could love them more than she does.  Sometimes, in a rare moment of clarity, I think I see the woman that you fell in love with.  In a brief moment of calmness, she'll do or say something totally uncharacteristic of the woman that I call mother.  And, in that moment, I know that she must have something that still works in there.  Like the way it did when you fell in love with her.
     I recently wrote a story about traveling back in time where I toyed with the notion of changing the past if I could.  I kept it light-hearted, so I didn't go to the night that you died.  If I could go back in time, would I travel back to that cold, January night that claimed your life and insist that you not go to work?  How different would everyone's life be if you hadn't died that night?  
     I suspect I would have been introduced to hunting and fishing and fixing cars.  I might have been a very different person.  But would I have been happy?  One proud thing that I'll say about Shawn and I is that we're very self-taught.  In a world filled with spoon-fed information and conformed lessons, we targeted and identified the things that we found interesting and claimed them.  A mother with a sixth-grade education doesn't have a lot of influence on two hard-headed, rambunctious boys.  If you had lived, would I have discovered my passion?  Dad, I am a writer.  It is at the core of everything that I know and love.  Everything that I see and do is narrated in my head.  It is filed as future text.  I can't help but wonder if I would have discovered that if you would have lived.  Don't get me wrong.  I wish all the time that you would have lived to raise us, but I sometimes think there might have been pro's as well as con's.
     You have left a legacy for us.  During your short life, you made waves that are being felt all the way into the 21st century.  I hear stories about you all the time.  Just the other day, I ran into a lady at work that told me how you would always carry her books home from school.  People have told me stories of how you would help them push their car after they ran out of gas in foot-deep snow. 
     Mom told me that you were born without a pallet (the roof of your mouth).  She said it made you sound like you were talking through plastic.  She told me once that you came home from work really upset because your co-workers were making fun of the way you talked.  For some reason, I found this story to be the most endearing.  I can relate to that.  She said that you always were saying how you were going to get that fixed one day, so that people wouldn't make fun of you in front of your kids.  Well, Dad, I can honestly say, I wouldn't have cared.  I am a really nervous person; I am a worry wart.  I think if I had been perfectly normal, then I wouldn't be the person that I am.  I wouldn't feel this need to be nice, this desire to be liked.  I think it's our imperfections that gave us our personalities.  This brings me to one of my points.  I always get the pudding.
     What's the pudding?  Well, it's the dessert part of the meal.  It's the "nice" stuff.  The "sweet" stuff.  When people tell me "Butchie" stories, I always get the pudding.  Dad, I want to know the real you.  I am your son.  I'd like to know.  What do I mean?  Well...
     Did you ever smoke pot?  Did you ever have a threesome?  Did you ever fuck a fat chick or a midget?  Did you ever get drunk and make an ass of yourself?  Hell, you were alive in the sixties.  I know there's some good stories out there.  Why can't I hear those?
     Sometimes, Shawn and I talk about the person you might have been.  We think you might have been some gear-headed redneck.  We have seen your drag racing trophies (I'm glad Mom kept those); we have seen pictures of you holding a fishing pole or a gun or riding a motorcycle.  But I know there was more to you than that.  I suspect you were actually a soft-hearted, intelligent man.
     One of my few remaining memories of you was of us laying on the living room floor, arguing over what to watch on tv.  I wanted "Gilligan's Island"; you wanted "The Little Rascals".  I started crying, so you took off one of your dirty socks and rubbed it in my face.  And then you gave in and let me watch "Gilligan's Island".  Wanna know something?  I know you probably regret not learning this in your lifetime.  Gilligan never got off the island. I thought for sure he would have, but he didn't.
     So..let me get to the point of this letter.. let me get to my revelation...
     I was driving across the Brookport Bridge the other day.  Dad, this winter has been one cold bitch.  I heard it compared to the winter of 1978 on the news last night.  The year you died.  I found myself, once again, pondering what happened, how it happened, how you must have felt.
     It's been 36 years, and yet, still to this day, when someone mentions my father I feel a catch in my breath.  It's a discomfort that is difficult to describe.  I don't know how to feel about you.  Mom had told me that you had drowned until I got older.  I suppose that's easier than explaining what hypothermia is.  I suppose that's kinder than saying that you froze to death.
     The word "Dad" feels so foreign to me.  I wonder if that's what I'm supposed to call you.  Should I say "Father" or "Butchie"?  When I tell people about you, I always feel like I'm doing it wrong.  
     Mom said you always boasted about how well you could swim.  She said that you said that you'd never wear a life jacket, because you didn't need one.  And yet, that cold January night 36 years ago, they pulled you out of the Ohio River wearing one.  So, you knew...
     When the shit hit the fan, you grabbed a life jacket.  When you couldn't hold on to anything else and you touched that freezing cold water for the first time, did you know that that was it?  Did it hit so cold and so hard that hope just iced up like your blood and crumbled into the water?  I spent my whole selfish life recreating that night in my head.  Selfish because I always imagined you splashing and screaming for help and struggling to breath when that mother fucking thief crept up behind you and slit your throat.
      Dad, I work on a casino riverboat.  I walk across the parking lot in the middle of the coldest winter night.  The wind slides across the open water and picks up the cold in its chilly arms and cruelly throws it on me.  I know how much colder it is near the water than it is anywhere else.  I look at the water and imagine how long a person might last floating in it.  I decide that it wouldn't be for long.
     I have children about the age that Shawn and I were when you died that night.  I am enduring a winter that is being compared to that winter.  And, I add another piece to the puzzle.  
     You had another thought that night, didn't you?  
     Because, when it's that cold, hope doesn't hang around for long, does it?  I wonder if it was ever even there.  You didn't spend your last breaths wasting them on salvation, did you?  Of course you didn't.  How do I know this?  Because I am your son.  In a way, I am you.  And that's not what I would have done.
     Whatever lingering hope or despair that might have been mumbling their last whispers was surpassed by your trumpeting desire to say I LOVE YOU one last time.  What you were screaming, whether verbally or otherwise, is that you wished that you would have hugged longer, that you would have said more.  And that your last words would have been "I love you".  
     That's what I would have wanted.  
     I heard it the other day on the bridge.  And that's why I'm writing you this letter.  
     I just wanted to say, "we hear you, Dad."  Relax.  We knew it, anyway.  You left us well.  Thanks to social security, we never hurt for money.  Thanks to your family, we always had a hand to hold.  Thanks to your love, we always had a dream to chase.  We have children to carry on your legacy and your name.    
     And that's it.  Just wanted to say that I heard you.  Everything's good.  I'm good; Shawn's good; Mom's good; our children are good.  In fact, I just may be at the peak of happiness right now.  
     Rest easy.
                                                          Your son,
                                                                Duane

P.S.  Just thought I'd give you a heads up, I'm going to be sending a dog your way soon.  
     
     
     

The Mad Dog Shack

                                       

                                                      1/24/14 - "The Mad Dog Shack"

     Blogger's Note:  First, some business.  I've been doing some planning and talking; and, as fate would have it, I think I just may have been talking to the right people.  I have been contemplating the future a lot lately.  I once read that a person who is anxious lives in the future; a person that is sad lives in the past; and, a person that is at peace lives in the present.  Makes sense to me.  So, today and the next post, I plan on sharing some of the goals and plans I have for myself and for my blog.  And after that, fuck it.  I'm going to do my best to take it one day at a time, one episode at a time.
     Today, I'm going to share with you some additions to the blog.  First, I'd like to give credit to my friend Amy who has a terrific blog of her own titled On a Journey Back to Her Wings (check it out).  She told me don't be afraid to post/share links to my blog more often.  People get online at different times of the day, and they may not see it the first time.  She also suggested some gadgets to add to the side panel of my blog.  I'll explain them now.
     "Join This Site" is a way to follow my blog via a Google account you may already have (such as Google +, gmail, or a blog you may be working on of your own).  If you don't have a Google account already, you can follow the easy steps to create one.  From there, you can add and follow as many blogs as you'd like, and get notifications when a new installment is available.
     "Follow by Email" is pretty self-explanatory.  An email will be sent to you when a new episode is published.  I haven't actually used this function, so I'm not sure if it literally sends you the blog or if it sends you a link to the blog (I should try it out, huh?)
     I'd like to remind everyone that Parenting with Lightsabers now has its very own Facebook page.  You can like it here.  I'd like to encourage anyone that hasn't already to please like my page.  I'm getting close to 100 Likes; I'd like to hit that milestone.  (please, however, don't encourage Joe Blow to "like" it just to get me 100 Likes.  I really just want people that either read it or think they might read it to "like" it.  That way, I don't feel like I'm bugging anyone if I post on there.  If you haven't noticed, I like having fun from that page).
     If you scroll to the very bottom of the page, you'll find a "Translate" function that is supposed to allow you to translate my blog to any language.  I did this for my Polish readers.  Most of them can probably read this in English, but I thought I'd throw that on there just in case.  I've tried it out, and it does appear to translate everything.  I'm afraid my Polish isn't good enough to say how well.
     I sometimes talk about Mason Jennings Radio on Pandora on here.  I always listen to this station when I'm writing.  It inspires me just right.  I've recently come to realize that if someone were to go to Pandora and choose to listen to a station seeded by Mason Jennings, it wouldn't sound anything like what I listen to.  I have "thumbs up'ed" and "thumbs down'ed" many songs, and I have seeded other artists.  So I have renamed this station "Parenting with Lightsabers Radio".  You can go to Pandora and listen to this station if you'd like.  It is a chill mix of folk rock and hipster music, exactly what I like.  If you think you might like it as well, check it out.
     Lastly, today you'll notice a new feature that will be a regular part of your favorite Parenting with Lightsabers episodes.  At one point, I said I'd never do this.  But, never say never, right?   Today, you'll notice a "Listening To:" feature.  Beside it, you'll find a link to either an audio source or a YouTube page where you'll be able to listen to the song that inspired me for this particular episode.  As I'm listening to Pandora, there's always one song that stands out.  One that encompasses the spirit of what I'm writing about.  Starting today, you can listen to it while you're reading, which is how I picture each episode being enjoyed.  And, of course, you can always choose to scroll right past it if that's not your thing.  No big deal...
     Today's episode may be the first that I created a new Pandora station to "inspire" me.  Parenting with Lightsabers Radio just wasn't doing it, so I turned it to Poison Radio.  And then I fell into a memory of those days like they were yesterday...
     So, finally, on to today's episode...
     If you haven't noticed, there's a rotation system that I use.  I rotate three types of blogs:  a Flashback episode, a new chapter in our "How We Got Engaged" story, and a random whatever's-on-my-mind post.  I like this technique because it usually gives me two-to-three weeks to brainstorm the next segment, and I generally do need this much time.  Today's episode is a Flashback episode.
     And not just any Flashback episode.  It's one that's been on my mind ever since the idea of doing a regular Flashback episode bubbled in my brain.  Today you will be introduced to my "hoodlum" days, and the friends that I had in those days.  I tried to tactfully introduce them in last week's "Approaching 40" episode.  Today, you will see them in action.
     This is the episode that really worried me to write.  I didn't want to feel "harnessed" while I was writing about those days.  I'm not sure how much I'd change even if I was.  But, I don't want to feel bridled.  I'm not sure if that makes any sense to you, but it does to me.  If there wasn't any doubt before now, then today will remove all doubt.  Parenting with Lightsabers is for mature readers only.
     Grab your favorite hair band tee-shirt, a pack of cigarettes, and a bottle of Strawberry Hill.  Where are we going?  Glad you asked.  Why, to the Mad Dog Shack, of course.  What's the Mad Dog Shack?  Oh, my.  Now that's a story...
     Listening to:  Poison "Nothin But a Good Time"

     "I don't know when he'll be home, but you're welcome to wait..."
     I didn't know what afflicted Franklin's wife, but she always sat in her wheelchair with her head tilted at the neck and one elbow resting on a hand rest.  Her hand hung limp at the wrist, and she would look at me out of the corner of her eye when she spoke.  I didn't know her name, but I enjoyed talking to her.  What she lacked in physical dexterity, she made up for in mental clarity.
     "Ok, we'll wait," I decided.  "I'm going to tell my friends."
     In the driveway, my 1988 red Chevy Cavalier was sitting.  Bret was riding shotgun; his long, blonde hair, popular among the girls, was resting over his shoulders as he anxiously watched me approach.  He could see that I wasn't carrying any alcohol, and the prospect of showing up at tonight's party without beer was intolerable.  I walked behind my car, past the YODA 16 license plate, and to the open window on the passenger side.  In the back seat, I could see Damon massaging his arm.
     "Two for flinching, fat boy!" Dennis told him.
     "Me?  You're the fat boy, bitch!" Damon responded.  "And if you punch me again, I'm going to clock you in the fucking face, mother fucker!"
     "He's not here yet," I informed them, although Bret was the only one that seemed concerned.
     "We going to wait?" Bret asked me in a way that clearly said 'we have to wait; we're not leaving here without beer.'  I agreed.
     "Yeah, I don't see another choice," I professed.
     "Hey!"  I couldn't see through the screen door, but the voice clearly belonged to Franklin's wife.  "Hey!  Come here!"
     I immediately walked back to the house.  I walked onto the porch as she spoke.  "If one of you can push me up there, I'll buy for you.  Y'all can just give me that twenty dollars," she offered.
     We had learned quickly that Franklin's fee of twenty dollars was the same no matter how much we got.  We would combine our "orders" and split the twenty proportionally.  Each of us would order beer, as that was the cool thing to drink, but we'd also throw on there something else.  None of us cared to admit that we hadn't yet acquired a taste for beer, and we were certain that there was some delicious alcoholic nectar that would get us really fucked up if we only knew what to order.
     "Ok, let me tell my friends, I'll be right back," I told her.
     I walked back to my car and explained the situation.  "Man, I've done this much.  I'm not pushing her up there," I finished.
     "I'm not either!" Bret asserted.
     After a brief moment of silence, Dennis spoke.  "Fuck it.  I'll do it."
     "Yeah, the bitch will do it," Damon clarified as Bret lifted the seat so Dennis could climb out.  Dennis punched Damon in the arm and climbed out before he could retaliate.  "Oh, you got it comin', mother fucker!" Damon insisted.
     "Your mom's got it comin'!" Dennis nudged as he walked to the front porch; I joined him to introduce the two.
     "This is Dennis.  He's gonna push you.  Here's the list of what we want and the money.  There's an extra twenty in there," I told Mrs. Franklin.
     "All right.  Honey, just push me down that ramp to the alley," she pointed to the edge of the porch.
     Dennis raised an arm, lifted his fist, and extended his pinky and his index finger in a rock 'n' roll salute.  He was a stout boy with the sides of his head shaved and the top grown long so that it hung to one side.  He always seemed to have his head tilted the way that his hair hung, and I thought the effect made him look like a heavy metal, sumo wrestler.
     Dennis rolled her down the concrete sidewalk into the gravel alley.  Damon, Bret, and I hung back and followed from a good distance.  The drive-thru liquor store was only half a block away, but the distance was difficult thanks to the crater-filled road that Dennis was going to have to navigate.
     Mrs. Franklin bounced around in her seat as Dennis rolled her through the bumpy alley.  The rest of us were trying not to laugh as one particular jolt tossed her into the air a little.  "Sugar, you gonna have to stop and straighten me up," she politely told Dennis.  He walked around to the front of the wheelchair, straightened her up, and extended the palm of his hand and awaited Mrs. Franklin to "give him five".  When she did the three of us cheered with "WoooHoooo!", "Rock 'n' Roll, mother fuckers!", and "Fuckin' A!".  She used the hand that worked to suppress a grin.
     When at last they arrived at the drive-thru, the three of us waited anxiously beside the dumpster behind Chong's.  At the window, I could see Mrs. Franklin reading the order to the cashier.  Three cases of beer and a cardboard box filled with bottles started coming through the window and were piled onto Mrs. Franklin's lap.
     "We still have ten dollars!" Dennis yelled at us.
     Damon felt a sudden need to use his asthma inhaler; Bret took a keen interest in a cloud overhead; and, I discovered the rocks at my feet were great for kicking.
     "Did you guys hear me??  We still have ten dollars!  Do you want me to get anything else??"
     "Just get anything!" Bret responded in a loud whisper.  He was waving his hand as if swatting the question away, and he was still watching the interesting cloud.
     "What about this?  It's Mad Dog 20/20, and it's cheap.  We can get four bottles!" Dennis shouted at us.
     "Whatever!  Get whatever!  What the fuck, man?"  Bret shared an incredulous look with the rest of us.  Apparently, discretion wasn't in Dennis's repertoire.
     At last the transaction ended, and Dennis began pushing Mrs. Franklin into the alley.  A tower of boxes was haphazardly stacked on her lap, and Dennis was trying to balance it with one hand and push with the other.  After watching the attempt for a short span of time, I began to realize that the task wasn't possible.  We were going to have to help.
     Bookending the wheelchair, Damon and I steadied the tower as Dennis leaned into the effort of pushing her forward.  We were all too afraid to actually carry anything and be caught as minors in possession of alcohol.
     We got stuck in one particularly large crater, so Bret grabbed the wheelchair from the front as the four of us worked together to get out of the depression.  We successfully maneuvered through the rest of the alley and at last reached the sidewalk behind Mrs. Franklin's house.
     "Thanks cool lady!"  Dennis said goodbye to her after we'd gotten her up the ramp and into the house.
     "No problem.  Don't tell Franklin I did that.  I'm gonna use this to buy me some lottery tickets," she smiled as she held out the twenty she had just earned.
     "We won't!" I smiled as the screen door slammed shut and the four of us began loading the alcohol into my trunk.  We climbed back into the car; I shoved Poison into the tape deck; and we spun onto the road with the music cranked as loud as it would go and smiles on our faces.
     "Where to now?" I shouted over the music.
     "Dinger gave me directions," Bret answered.  "It's almost to Pope County.  Just head like you're going to the ridge and I'll show you.  He's getting the sleeping bags there now.  He's gonna cut across the forest on his dirt bike and meet us there."
     "Mother fucker!" Dennis shouted as Damon apparently knocked the fuck out of his arm.  "You just wait.  I'm gonna get you good!"
     "That's what your mom said last night!" Damon didn't hesitate a response.
     "Fuck you.  Your mom's so ugly that she tried to get in an ugly contest but they said 'sorry, no professionals.'"
     Damon quickly reciprocated.  "Your mom's so fat that her belly button gets home five minutes before she does!"
     Whenever Damon and Dennis started in on their "your mom" jokes, I always felt certain that it was going to end in fisticuffs in my backseat.  But it never did.  I slowly grew to realize that they were playing a game where the loser was the first person to actually get pissed.  I don't recall either of them losing that game.
     We flew across the Brookport bridge at a safe speed of 80 mph as Bret Michaels was crooning some "Unskinny Bop" and random yells and screams emitted from my various passengers.  My Cavalier skimmed over hills and around curves.  An old man in bib overalls was checking his mail as Bret shouted "Rock 'n' Roll MOTHER FUCKER!" out the passenger window.  Dennis and Damon continued their banter behind me, and I tried to distribute my laughs evenly on both sides so that neither of them ever felt like they had the lead.
     We called ourselves 8-Pak.  We did have a list of eight people that we considered part of the group; but, as time and distance constantly shifted and changed the roster, we decided that 8-Pak was more a state of mind than an actual group of people.  8-Pak was whoever we were partying with.
     And usually that was just other guys.  We weren't old enough or cool enough yet for pot or pussy, so we would gather at one of our various gathering places and hope that somebody would show up with a girl (or a few of them if we dared dream it), but that rarely happened that summer.  Adams' Gravel Pit, the Pines, Strawberry Hill, Beaver Dam, Over the Top, and Mill Springs were names of some the places that we would end up partying at.  Tonight, Dinger said he found a new place he wanted to show us.  And Bret knew how to get there.
     Dinger was definitely a member of 8-Pak.  He was one of the best people I've ever known.  He was good-natured and honest and just an all-around good guy.  His real name was Aaron, but everybody called him Dinger.  I'm not sure why.  I was probably the only person that called him Aaron because I always considered the nickname "Dinger" to be unflattering, and I liked him too much for that.  He didn't seem to mind either way.  He had long hair like most of my friends and was the group boy scout.  He was great to have around when we were camping as he was always the most capable at building a campfire or erecting a tent or whatever needed doing.  He also made sure everyone had sleeping bags.  For some reason, he always had plenty of sleeping bags.  He handed them out like candy on Halloween and collected them in the morning.  
     Bret was directing me by looking at a map that had been drawn for him.  Turn left, turn right, turn right again, two curves, and then right again.  A trail of dust suffixed our route and provided an omen of concern for the residents in this normally quiet stretch of countryside.  Hair band music screamed out our open windows and adulterated the peaceful back roads.
     We were actually pretty good kids compared to some that were our age.  Most of the time, we were just looking for a safe, secluded place to get drunk.  Occasionally, we would get bored and try our hands at some mailbox baseball; but, we didn't do that too often.  We looked a lot more "motley" than we actually were.
     At last, we pulled into a small, one-lane gravel road that left the county lane and disappeared into the arms of some gnarled trees.  I ejected Poison and stuck Great White in the deck.  "Once Bitten Twice Shy" was conveniently waiting to escort us down this new and strange road.
     "You sure this is the right way?" I yelled over the music.
     "As best as I can tell by this map that Dinger drew me!" Bret assured me.
     We followed the road for quite a ways.  It was a sturdy path and seemed to hold no danger of heavy ruts that might be too much for my little four-cylinder.  I had no idea when we turned onto this road that it would go back as far as it did.  We had already traveled at least two miles, and I didn't think a road this small could have possibly gone back this far.
     When the song finally ended, I turned the radio down.  The four of us sat in silence and watched the forest slowly drift by us.  At last, we idled up an incline; and, once we reached the top of the rise, we could turn left or right into open fields.  We could go straight, but the road was heavily rutted and my car wouldn't be capable of driving that way.
     "When you can't go any further, turn left," Bret read the last piece of direction to us.
     "Into that field?" I wanted to confirm before we continued.
     "I guess so," he said.
     I turned into the field.  Once we cleared the trees, our destination became apparent.  An old house sat on the edge of the open pasture.  A rusted, tin roof covered old wood that was thirsty for paint.  A humble, front porch was covered by an overhang.  Beside it, a dirt bike was parked.  Aaron stepped out of the house wearing his typical smile as he waved.
     "Shagnasty!" Dennis yelled from the back seat.  First Dinger and now Shagnasty.  I laughed at the name as I considered the probability that we'd be hearing it again.
     I turned the key off as Aaron ran up to the car.  "You made it!" he welcomed us.  "Did you get the beer?"
     I answered by popping my trunk and revealing the treasure inside.
     He reached into one of the paper sacks in the cardboard box.  He pulled something out.  He held up a bottle of the Mad Dog 20/20.  "What's this?" he asked through a chuckle.
     "I don't know," Dennis responded.  "We had some money left over, and the lady that bought it for us said that it was cheap and would fuck you up."
     Aaron opened it and took a swig.  He coughed as he handed it to me.  "Fuck man!  It tastes like cough syrup."
     I tried it.  Indeed, he was right.  Oh well.  At least it had alcohol in it.  I handed it to Damon as we began passing it around.
     "So what is this place?" I asked Aaron.
     "Come on!  I'll give you a tour."
     Aaron led us onto the front porch and through the front door.  Inside, three nice bunk beds lined the walls.  A sturdy, cast-iron wood stove had a chimney that disappeared into the wall behind it.
     "Holy shit!  This is awesome!" I couldn't contain my excitement.  "I call this bed!" I said as I tapped the top bed next to me.  I suspected that heaven might look something like this.
     Aaron led us into another room in the back.  A toilet seat had been situated above a five-gallon bucket.  The back door that led outside was partially open.
     "This rocks!" Bret confirmed.
     "Yeah.  I think it's a deer hunters cabin!" he speculated.  "Down the road a ways, there's another house that's similar to this one, except it's in really bad shape and it's hard to get to.  I bet these houses were built in the 1800's!"
     "Fucking A!" Dennis expressed our sentiment.
     "So who all's coming tonight?" Damon asked.
     "Well, I gave directions to Jeremy.  He said Ben is going to ride with him.  His friend David is going to follow him so that he can bring Boogie and Devan.  I asked him to pick up Neidermyer like you asked and he said he would." Aaron explained.  Neidermyer had moved north, near Chicago, but he was in town visiting his grandmother.  He was my friend, so I felt an obligation to invite him to the party.  Neidermyer was just fine when he was sober, but once he started drinking he was a total idiot.  Everyone liked to remind me that he was my responsibility, and I begrudgingly accepted the role.  We, unfortunately, all knew that he was going to do something really stupid tonight; so, everyone wanted to be double certain that I knew that I'd be babysitting.  I liked Neidermyer, but sometimes I wished that something would come up and he wouldn't be able to make it.
     "Is Jeremy going to bring the coolers?" I asked.
     "Yeah, he said he's bringing two big coolers with ice since you guys got the beer," Aaron resolved.
     "Cool.  Well, let's get this party started!"
     Aaron and Bret went to work putting the sleeping bags on the beds.  Damon, Dennis, and I started unloading the party supplies from the trunk.  I passed out the beers, and the popping sound of opening cans was followed by the distant sound of approaching vehicles
     Not long after, Jeremy's Fiero and David's Ford Tempo pulled into the field.  The cars were loaded with our friends.  Aaron ran out to greet them.  "You found it!!!" he was shouting.
     The crew of new-arrivals filed out of the cars excitedly.  Everyone was anxious to explore the cabin.
     After Aaron had taken them on a tour, we divvied the alcohol according to who paid for what.  We only had Bud Lite, so figuring out who got what beer wasn't too difficult.  Jeremy, Ben, and David each got Strawberry Hill; Boogie, Dennis, and Damon had Jack Daniels; Devan and Neidermyer had decided to split some vodka.  The rest of us were drinking beer and, apparently, Mad Dog 20/20.  Usually, after the first round, everybody was drinking everybody's anyway.
     Jeremy pulled out the coolers, and we started filling them.  The drive from Paducah in the summer heat had warmed up the drinks; now we needed to let them chill for a bit.  None of us felt like waiting long, so we just started drinking warm beer.
     The afternoon trudged into night.  A jam box had been placed on the porch and was playing somebody's mix tape.  Currently, Nazareth was lamenting that "Love Hurts".  I had a pretty good buzz going when Aaron and Bret walked out the front door.  "We're going to go find some wood for the stove," Aaron said.
     "Need some help?" I offered.
     "No thanks, we've almost got enough," Aaron explained.
     I went back to drinking my beer and listening to music when Boogie sat down beside me.  He was holding a duffle bag in one hand and a bottle of vodka in the other.  Boogie was Native American; he had long, dark hair and a vicious temper when he was in a bad mood.  He pulled a can of black, spray paint from the bag.  "Let's name this place, man," he suggested.
     Sounded like a good idea to me.  "Ok.  What's a good name?" I responded.
     "I don't know, man," he smiled.  "What's a good idea?"
     I drunkenly spared a look at the dilapidated building.  "How about the Love Shack?" I suggested.  I could see Jeremy and Ben standing next to the Fiero listening to some Faith No More.  David was getting some blankets out of the trunk.  He accidentally stepped on a discarded bottle on the ground and nearly tripped.  He picked it up where we recognized it as a Mad Dog 20/20 bottle and tossed it further into the field.
     "How about the Mad Dog Shack?" Boogie countered.
     I smiled and nodded.  The Mad Dog Shack it would be.  Boogie took the cap off the spray paint and wrote Mad Dog Shack in big, bold letters on the front of the cabin.  Jeremy shouted "Kill-No-Save!" from where he was standing.  I recognized the unusual cheer as meaning, "Hell yeah!"  Apparently, he approved.
     Aaron and Bret walked up the steps carrying loads of sticks and wood to add to the pile already inside.  Most of the others were standing around Jeremy's car talking about skateboarding.  Neidermyer was sitting on the porch with his back against the wall; the vodka bottle he was working on was half-empty.  I knew that I would be called to duty soon.
     Aaron and Bret came back outside brushing the evidence of kindling from their arms.  They sat next to me and Boogie.  I could see in Aaron's eyes that he wasn't feeling any pain.
     "Man, that Mad Dog ain't too bad once you get used to it," Aaron proposed.
     "Fuck that, Dinger!" Bret disagreed.  "That shit's nasty.  Here, drink something else."  He handed him a Bud Lite.
     "Did you start the fire yet?" Boogie asked.  The question triggered my awareness that the sun had been eradicated by the night's whispering assurance.  A chilly dampness crept from the ground and shrouded our entourage.
     "Yeah, just now," Bret said as Devan shouted something and started laughing.
     "I'm gonna punch him tonight," Aaron revealed.
     "You're gonna what, Dinger?" Boogie pressed through a bewildered snicker.  We had never known Aaron to hit anything; my ears perked up at this unexpected revelation.
     "I'm gonna knock the fuck out of him one good time," Aaron reiterated.
     "What for?" I wanted to know.  I wasn't taking sides, but my curiosity over what might spark this peace-loving man to violence had been stroked.
     "Because he's got a bee bee stuck in his head," Bret answered for him.
     "Do what?" Boogie asked.
     We paused to listen to an uproar of cheering from the area where everyone was gathered around the Fiero.  "Dude, get that shit out of your hair!  What the fuck is that, anyway?" Damon was speaking to Dennis.  Dennis went to work combing his hair with his fingers when Damon continued.  "Oh, nevermind.  That's just your face..."
     Another cheer erupted from the huddle.  Those of us that were gathered on the porch laughed as well.  Neidermyer was still laughing long after everyone else had stopped.
     Aaron finally resumed our conversation.  "When we were ten, Devan shot me with a bee bee gun.  The bee bee got stuck in my head."
     "Why didn't you go to the hospital?  Get it taken out or something?" I asked.
     "I did," Aaron revealed.  "The doctors told my parents that they were afraid to remove it.  They said it would never hurt anything where it was, so they left it.  I still owe Devan one good punch for that shit!"
     "Where is it?" Boogie questioned.
     Aaron bent over and parted his hair with his hands.  He showed us where to feel by guiding our fingers until, sure enough, I could feel the small raised hump of a bee bee just below the scalp.  Amazing!
     "So he's gonna knock the fuck out of Devan tonight!" Bret surmised.  Neidermyer started laughing antagonistically, and I could feel everyone looking at me.  When he saw that everyone was staring, he took a swig from his bottle of vodka.
     I raised my beer to toast Aaron on his venture and decided that I would meander over to the group next to the Fiero.  I gauged my inebriation by the ebb and flow of the ground as I walked; I smiled to affirm that I, indeed, was "feeling good".
     When I arrived, David put me in a headlock.  "Come on, Great Dane!  Oooh, yeah!"  The Great Dane was my wrestling name.  We took wrestling seriously in those days.  We had regular, big events where we would get a camcorder and videotape ourselves trampoline wrestling.  We got pretty crazy with it.  Some of us did incur some pretty gnarly injuries; I'm surprised no one ever got hurt any worse than we did.
     I tripped him by placing my leg behind his and pushing him backwards.  Once on the ground, I was trying to free myself from the headlock while he tried to maintain the hold.  After a while, when neither of us could gain any leverage, I finally said, "All right, all right.  Let's get back to drinking.  I'm too fucked up for this shit."
     David let me go, and we both started laughing.  Damon was reaching into the cooler.  He pulled out a beer.  "Hey, Duane, need a beer?" he asked me.
     After I replied "sure", he tossed me one.  Droplets of icy water shimmered free and splattered my face as I caught the tossed can.  Ben and Jeremy were discussing an idea for a comic book that involved a masked vigilante by the name of Whiplash.  Devan was explaining to Dennis how he was going to put together a band.  Dialogue was being exchanged on every level; we were all so confident about the future.
     "Thanks man," I said to Damon.  "By the way, do you think we can film some more of Jacque Strapp next Saturday?  We've got some ideas on a sequel."  Damon was the only one of us that had a camcorder.  We used it to film our wrestling events, our spoof commercials, or the movie we'd been working on.  Jacque Strapp was a comedy about the misadventures of a goofy detective; it was actually pretty funny stuff.
     "Duane!!!"  Bret was calling me from the cabin.  The urgency in his voice suggested that I shouldn't waste any time.  Everyone got quiet as I strode towards the old house.  Bret was standing in the doorway and from inside I could hear Neidermyer moaning.  Neidermyer..  of course...
     As I climbed the front steps, Bret moved aside so I could enter the shack.  Neidermyer was sitting on the floor with his back against one of the beds.  He was moaning and trying to smile at the same time.  The effect was somewhat eerie.  "What happened?" I cringed as I braced for the explanation.
     "He hugged the stove!" Bret explained.
     "What happened?  Did he trip and land on the..."
     "No!  He hugged the stove!" Bret insisted.
     Aaron walked up to me, put his arms around me, and hugged me.  "Like this," he demonstrated.
     "Why??" I asked looking at Neidermyer to assess the damage.  His hands were laying with their palms up in his lap; I could see in the lantern light that his forearms were bright red.  Neidermyer shrugged and started laughing again.
     The others had congregated at the doorway; those in the back were looking over the shoulders of those in the front, trying to get a peek at the newest Neidermyer endeavor.
     "While you check on him, I'm gonna grab a beer," Aaron stated as he parted the crowd to get outside.  Bret followed after him; and, once outside, the rest of the crew left the scene.
     "Do you need to go to the hospital?" I asked Neidermyer once we were alone.
     He shook his head.  He spit his answer, "No, juth give me the vodka.  I dropped it."
     I looked around and saw the bottle of Smirnoff lying on the floor near the stove.  As I retrieved it, I could feel the heat from the stove and wondered how badly his arms must have been burnt.  I considered that maybe I shouldn't give him any more to drink; but, ultimately, I decided that he could probably use the pain suppressant.  Besides, maybe he'd get drunk enough to just pass out, so I handed him the bottle.
     "Why did you hug the stove?" I asked confidingly.
     "I don't know."  He started laughing that pathetic laugh again.  "It looked like it needed a hug."
     "Well..." I began when suddenly a loud commotion erupted outside.
     "Holy shit, Dinger!" I heard someone yell.  "Go Shagnasty!!" someone else cheered.  "Kill-No-Save!!"  a couple of others chanted.
     I immediately knew what had happened.  I left Neidermyer to his bottle of vodka and walked out to the front porch.  In the beam of the Fiero's headlight, Devan was picking himself up from the ground.  He was touching his lip with his fingers and checking to see if he was bleeding.  From where I was standing, I couldn't tell whether he was or not.
     "That's for the bee bee in my head, mother fucker!!!" Aaron shouted.  It would be the first and only time of his life that I had known Aaron to hit anybody.  I smiled to myself.
     Devan stood up, and I half-expected him to start swinging.  But, he didn't.  Ben handed him another beer and smiled.  Everyone was smiling.  Well, everyone but Devan.  He opened his beer and took a drink.  I came down to join them.
     So, the night went on.  We all stood around talking about beer and pussy.  Devan would occasionally feel his lip; but, he was otherwise fine.  None of us revisited the topic that night.
     When we finally retired inside, Neidermyer was passed out sitting in the same spot where I had left him.  I threw a blanket over him.  Six of us claimed beds; the rest made pallets on the floor.  We lay there listening to the wood crackling in the stove; periodically Aaron would add more kindling and stir the embers in its belly.  The energy in our slurred voices slowly faded as the night slipped into morning.
     Damon and I were two of the last remaining awake.  "Do you think we'll all stay friends?" I asked him.
     "Who knows," he said.  "I doubt it.  I mean, someday we'll all probably go different ways.  Who knows where we'll end up."
     And then I fell asleep.

     The sound of a vehicle approaching woke us up.  In our groggy hangover states, we started gathering the sleeping bags and blankets and whatever else we could find.  We didn't have permission to be there, and we needed to get the fuck out of there.
     David was the first to open the door.  The sun was much higher than I expected it to be; cruel light stabbed our eyes as our hearts pounded in our chests.  I popped the trunk of my car, and everyone started shoving in the supplies.
     I looked up to see Neidermyer stepping carefully down the front steps and examining his forearms.  I wondered how badly he was injured, but I was in too much of a hurry to ask right now.  As everyone climbed into the car, the revelation that there was no where to go suddenly dawned.  There was only one way in or out of here, and it was the one-lane road that was now blocked by whatever was coming our way.  We were doomed.
     I looked at Jeremy sitting beside me in the driver's seat of his Fiero.  We shrugged at each other as if to say, 'what should we do?'  Neither of us had an answer.  I decided to get out of the car and stand beside it, waiting cavalierly (no pun intended) for whatever fate might befall us.
     The sound grew rather loud, and we could see through the trees that it was a tractor.  Perched on the seat was a gentleman in a straw hat wearing a friendly smile.  He turned the tractor into the field where we were congregated.  I felt sick to my stomach for more than one reason.  Looking around, I could see that everyone else felt the same as me.
     The old farmer pulled his tractor up beside us, fidgeted with the lever between his legs, and finally shut down the engine.  It sputtered a couple of times before the silence that followed somewhat eased the pounding in my head.
     "How you fellas doin'?" he asked with a big, friendly smile.  I considered the possibility that this was the calm before the storm.  He was about to let loose a scolding lecture about trespassing and underage drinking and not having permission.  I considered that maybe we should just make a run for it now; there was a space to get around him if we hurried.
     "Pretty good," I answered instead.
     "Did y'all stay in the cabin last night?" he asked me.
     "Yeah," I didn't see any point in lying.  Besides, my red eyes would probably betray any clever explanation that I might be able to conjure on the fly.
     "That's an a'ight little cabin there.  Some deer hunters turned that old house into a place that they can stay during hunting season.  Do you kids hunt?" he asked us.
     "Nah," I answered.
     "Oh, yeah?  Just camping?  Well that sounds fun.  As long as you kids take care of it, you can come as often as you like I suppose.  It could sure use a coat of paint."  He looked to where Boogie had spray-painted Mad Dog Shack in big, black letters across the front.  I suddenly felt very ashamed of the idea to paint the name across the front of it.
     "We could paint it sometime," I offered.  And I meant it.  Everyone around me muttered their agreement.
     He scanned us with one last visual assessment, nodded a final smile, and started his tractor.  My heart finally slowed as we climbed into our cars and drove away.
     Over the next few years, we would use that cabin many times.  I have many Mad Dog Shack stories.  Though we never painted it, everyone of us took care of it.  Any time we introduced someone new to that cabin, we instilled in them the respect for that place and for that old farmer that we had for it.  The creaking, wooden floors of that old house would hold us up many a drunken night and would be the setting for many a story from my youth.
     I haven't been there in many, many years.  I suppose I should go there and see what it looks like today.  Someone once told me that some vandals burnt it down a few years later.  I don't know if that's true or not.  If it is, I can only say one thing.  I know, without one morsel of doubt, that none of us that stayed there that night were responsible.  We took care of the Mad Dog Shack.  It was our home.

     -- if you'd like to read another Flashback episode, then check out "Bad Boys, Bad Boys"